Might Need a Shock Blanket
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock Holmes. Honeybees. Honestly, what could go wrong? (A lot.)


**Might Need a Shock Blanket**

Sherlock heard the front door open, but he didn't look up. He had a much more pressing experiment on hand- as he usually did- than to help John with his ridiculous shopping.

"Sherlock, what is that noise? Sherlock- shit."

Sherlock's lips quirked towards a smile as John stepped into the flat. Nonetheless, he didn't look up, his eyes fixed on the crawling creatures in front of him.

"_Why_ is the flat filled with bees?!" John demanded, hesitantly setting the shopping down. "Should I just leave while I'm ahead?"

"They're fine, John. They won't bother you. Go about your business," Sherlock said, not looking away from the honeycomb crawling with bees. "Don't make any sudden movements and don't irritate them."

"So, in other words, I should leave," John said, sounding skeptical.

"Do as you wish," Sherlock replied absently.

"You're going to get stung!" John said, slowly walking towards him. "And what's the point of all this? What are you experimenting?"

"The effects on the hive once the Queen has been removed," Sherlock said quietly.

"_Why_?"

"I believe the question you're looking for is _why not_, John."

John grunted, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. "Where did you get all these bees?"

"Ordered them."

"From _where_?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock reached for a pen to make a few notes. "Never mind, John. Is there a point to your useless drivel or can I continue with my research?"

"Huh. Yeah. Carry on," John said, turning. "I'll be upstairs. They better not be in my bedroom."

"Should be clear," Sherlock said absently.

"Hopefully," John said, vanishing into the hallway and ascending the stairs.

It was almost an hour later that John resurfaced, muttering about dinner and when Sherlock was going to get rid of the infernal bees.

"Having fun?"

Sherlock sat up a little straighter, trying to crack his back. "Could be worse."

Really, it wasn't as exciting as he had thought it was going to be. Honeybees were interesting, but there was only so much that Sherlock could watch them do. Boredom was starting to snake its dark tendrils into his brain again, and with upwards of a hundred fifty bees in the flat, that wasn't a good thing.

"Do you want dinner?" John asked from the kitchen.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Maybe later. Once most of the bees are out of flat."

"I'd be happy if they were out of here now," John muttered.

"Can't help you."

"Yeah, I didn't figure you could. I'm ordering take-away," John announced.

"Fine."

John was talking his way through an order at the Thai place that Sherlock never remembered the name of when Sherlock felt a bit breathless. He sighed in annoyance, yawned widely out of reflex, and stretched. This experiment was going to his mind. He was so bored that he was forgetting to breathe.

However, the deep breath, the yawn, it didn't help. It was then that he started to feel properly short of breath. He sat up straight, mind racing. He hadn't been stung, had he? He didn't remember being stung. He would have noticed, wouldn't have he? He would have-

Sherlock stood suddenly.

"Sherlock?"

He turned and strode for the bathroom. His fingers were automatically searching for the button on his jacket and he threw it off, fumbling for his shirt.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked, walking over to him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock finally wrenched his shirt off, looking at his reflection. "I've been stung..." he murmured, immediately noting the hives now littering his pale skin.

"Sherlock- you're _allergic_?" John demanded, taking Sherlock's arm. "Why the hell are you working with bees when you're allergic to them?"

Sherlock swallowed. His throat was swelling, his tongue felt heavy, and he was starting to shake and feel dizzy. Of course, he had known that he was allergic to bee venom. He had known that for a few years. But, still, he hadn't planned on being _stung_. He was perfectly _careful_-

"EpiPen!" Sherlock gasped, slumping back against the wall.

John, who was rummaging in the cabinet, looked up quickly. "You have one? Great, where? Sherlock?"

"Nightstand!"

John turned and ran out. A couple slamming drawers later- of course John would pick the wrong nightstand right off the bat- and footsteps returned back to the bathroom.

"Alright. Hang on, hang on," John muttered, fumbling with the injector. "Okay-"

"Just _do_-" Sherlock started, feeling sick.

He didn't have any warning- he'd closed his eyes- but the pinch of a needle into his thigh a second later made him wince. He gripped onto the bathroom counter, trying to breathe, counting off the seconds in his mind. Ten seconds in the mid-thigh, the adrenalin would rush into his blood stream, counteract the reaction...

Sherlock drew in a shaky breath, looking down at John as he removed the EpiPen from Sherlock's thigh.

"... That should help," John murmured, standing. He returned to the cabinet. "We should get to the hospital."

"Why?" Sherlock rasped. "This is all they do in hospital..." He tried to draw in another breath, leaning heavily back against the wall. "I'll be fine..."

John searched out the antihistamines, popping the tablets and handing them to Sherlock. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock took the medication and the glass of water that John offered. "Tell you what?" he said, swallowing back the pills.

"That you're allergic to bee venom, that you keep an EpiPen- I don't know, Sherlock, _something_ that would have prepared me for this?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked. Now that he was feeling better, now that he was able to properly breathe and worry less about his own tongue blocking his airway, his sarcasm was making a comeback. "I don't go around getting stung by bees on purpose."

"We go out _all_ the time," John said. "What if you got stung then? At a crime scene or during a chase or whatever? You don't even _carry_ this with you, do you?" he asked, waving the EpiPen at Sherlock.

"No. Why should I? I don't worry about it."

John sighed heavily. "On top of everything else I worry about, now I have to worry about carrying about _your_ EpiPen."

"No, you don't. I don't get stung," Sherlock said. John raised his eyebrows, looking towards Sherlock's arm. "Most of the time," Sherlock amended.

John sighed. "I'm going to call the surgery. Stay here. I'll be right back."

"You don't need to call the surgery," Sherlock retorted, but he stayed where he was, slumped back against the wall.

His heart was still pounding frantically within his chest, his hands were shaking, tremors slithering through his body. This was from the adrenalin, he was sure. He had never used his EpiPen before, but he knew how and he knew the reactions from it.

Sherlock, drawing in another deep breath, turned on the tap to refill the glass. He took a drink of the cool water, relishing in the feel of it moving down his throat.

Allergic reactions were _not_ pleasant. He'd only had one before, when he had been out on a crime scene and gotten stung because they were right next to a hive. He hadn't known that he was allergic at that point. He had already been stung before, obviously, and nothing had happened.

Of course, being stung the first time wouldn't have given him a reaction; it was being stung the _second_ time that brought forth the allergy and quite possibly, in a bad state, anaphylactic shock. Luckily, Lestrade had been there to notice the reaction and there had been an ambulance to rush him to hospital. And that's when Sherlock had first learned he had allergies to bee venom.

Still, he didn't go around wandering around bee hives on a normal basis and, when he did, he was perfectly still and unthreatening to the creatures. He didn't even know why he'd been stung this time.

"You are _so_ stupid," John was muttering as he walked back into the bathroom. "I don't know _why_ you were experimenting when you _knew_ you're allergic. _Clot_," he muttered. "How are you feeling? By rights, I should be rushing you to A&E but I can monitor you here, I guess."

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered.

John rolled his eyes, closing the bathroom doors. "We're going to stay in here, while I make sure you're not going to relapse and need more adrenalin or antihistamines, and I'm going to call someone to get these bees out."

Sherlock sighed, but didn't argue. He had already gotten the information he needed for his experiment. Instead, he slumped back against the counter, sliding down to sit on the floor. He still felt sick... He would have preferred to curl up in bed, but he was sure that John wouldn't allow it yet.

"Call Mycroft. He'll send someone over."

John rolled his eyes. "And I'll be sure to chew him out while I'm at it. He should be blocking you from beekeepers or... whatever. So you can't be around bees."

"My brother can't stop me doing anything," Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes.

"In your state? I think he could," John muttered.

"My current condition does not count," Sherlock said, shivering slightly.

"Of course it doesn't," John muttered.

Sherlock smiled briefly, opening his eyes to look towards John.

John caught the gaze, rolled his eyes, and mouthed _clot_ as he waited for his call to go through to Mycroft.

Sherlock just smirked and looked back to the ceiling.

* * *

**So, yes, Holmes experimented with bees in the canon. I thought it would be an interesting twist on the modernisation to have Sherlock actually _allergic_ to bee venom. :p From what I understand, the EpiPen is first, followed by antihistamines, and generally a trip to A&E. Forgive me if there are any mistakes with the treatment.**

**The title is a reference to anaphylactic shock.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


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